


She Says She's Ours

by brinkleytown



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is Mostly Human, Eldritch, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinkleytown/pseuds/brinkleytown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos had been a resident of Night Vale for nearly two years, so he should have expected this. (WORK ABANDONED WILL NOT UPDATE)</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Says She's Ours

Carlos had been a resident of Night Vale for nearly two years, so he should have expected this.

Or rather, he shouldn’t have ever expected anything, because all eventualities are subject to change. The Sheriff’s Secret Police likes to keep you on your toes.

Nevertheless, the perfect, wonderful, gorgeous-haired scientist opened the recently re-materialized door to his laboratory and stood gobsmacked at the sight before him.

Cecil’s face was contorted into a mockery of a grin which, from experience, Carlos knew signified happiness and great pleasure and not the desire to kill Batman. (“What’s a bat-man?” Cecil had asked. “I don’t think we have those here in Night Vale. Unless they live in the dog park--if we had a dog park that we were allowed to think about, I mean.” This was the first of many times to follow that Carlos seriously wondered what sort of place his new home was.)

But his facial expression was the matter of least concern, because hand-in-hand (or spined appendage that looked rather like an overgrown rose stem-in-hand) with the community radio host was an individual of indeterminate species, sex, and… shape?

“She says she’s ours, Carlos,” he spoke, still smiling, and allowing the name to fall from his lips in the usual song-like tone.

The scientist did not know where to begin. First, he tried to picture the orange--or was it purple--figure in the sort of dresses his mother had forced his sisters into on Sunday mornings and for family gatherings. It was futile. Carlos was reminded once again that maybe he’d grown up with far too narrow constructs regarding gender. If a binary system of males and females existed anywhere, that place certainly was not Night Vale.

Carlos was quickly torn away from these thoughts as the rest of Cecil’s deceptively concise explanation sunk in. “Ours?” he echoed in confusion. He had engaged in intimate acts with the other man many times, but was reasonably sure that it was not possible for pregnancy to result from their union. The post-coital report forms said as much in small type, right under the words, “Complete within twenty minutes of orgasm and leave at the foot of the Arby’s sign. Violations punishable by death and/or banishment to Desert Bluffs.”

“Of course, my dear, dear Carlos,” Cecil replied, pushing past his partner and ushering his new companion to sit down inside. It--no, _she_ , Cecil had said-- _she_ sat. She sat on Carlos’ favorite rolling desk chair and promptly began to ooze a substance akin to molasses from her pores. “I think she likes you,” Cecil exclaimed eagerly, grabbing Carlos’ hand and pressing it to the child’s own (she had one of her own now). “This, princess, is your father.”

Carlos choked a bit on his own saliva. Cecil was looking at the child with the sort of utter rapture and pride that he usually saved for when he was permitted to brush his scientist’s perfect, long hair. One would have to be utterly heartless to do anything to ruin that expression, and Carlos could feel the powerful muscle still beating in his chest. “Erm--hello...there...you,” he managed, looking into the suspiciously dead eyes of the child. He then leaned down to whisper into Cecil’s ear, not knowing just how much the newcomer understood of the English language and not willing to risk offending her. “Cecil,” he said sternly. “I think we need to have a talk.”

“A talk!” the radio host exclaimed, unaccustomed to secrets or subtlety. “You know I will talk to you at any moment, Carlos. Even if I’m broadcasting! No need to wait for the weather--you’re the most important part of Night Vale and the listeners understand. What shall we talk about now? Perhaps our plans for the nursery? I was thinking we could set a crib in that little alcove beside your toxic waste receptacle, but I’m open to considering the alternatives.”

Nursery? The child was apparently, despite (changing) appearances, an infant. With this new information in hand, Carlos spoke aloud once more. “I… perhaps… did you… no…” he tried, unsure of how best to address the situation. He had no schema for “lover brings home eldritch horror creature and commences family planning without one’s prior consent.”

As Carlos attempted to find his words, Cecil picked up the child, who had shrunk into a watermelon-sized ball of what appeared to be wriggling worms, and began to gently rock her back and forth.  “Oh!” he exclaimed then, eyes widening with some sort of understanding. “Excuse us, sweetie, but daddy and papa need some time alone. Why don’t we take you over to the Big Rico’s Night Vale Municipal Day Care Center?” Cecil headed back out the door then, turning around only to wink at Carlos from the front step.

The scientist followed, gave a half-hearted wave at the retreating forms, and shut the door. He slumped to the floor then, and, with his head in his hands, began mentally composing a speech.

_Dearest, wonderful, kind, Cecil,_

_You’ve returned to my lab with all the proper forms in hand, expecting a figurative roll in the hay, but there’s something we actually need to discuss._

_I know things are different here in Night Vale, so could you perhaps explain to me slowly and completely what the devil just happened?_

_I...wasn’t ready for this._


End file.
